Stains of History
by Laura Schiller
Summary: Missing scene from "Nothing Human". Tabor hears about a fellow victim of Crell Mosett.


Stains of History

By Laura Schiller

Based on Star Trek: Voyager

Copyright: Paramount

_Crell Mosett. _

The name hit Tal Celes right between the shoulder blades. She had come to Sandrine's in order to relax at the end of a more than usually dreadful duty shift; without any arguments with Lieutenant Torres to keep her occupied, Seven of Nine had even more time to offer scathing criticisms of Celes' work. Beyond that, the entire department was on edge, anxious about B'Elanna being sucked dry by the unknown alien in Sickbay. Hoping to find a few moments of rest, if not quiet, among the friendly chatter and smooth piano music of the bar, Celes had found herself jolted out of her fragile peace by the name of one of her darkest childhood demons. Her hands clenched around her evening glass of cider at the sound of the outraged voice behind her.

"I'm telling you, it's true! I saw him! The Doctor's got a hologram of him in Sickbay, thinking he'll help to save B'Elanna – as if that bastard's sick experiments ever helped anyone but himself!"

Looking over her shoulder, she recognized the speaker as Tabor Jeth, a fellow Bajoran who had been part of the Maquis crew, sitting with friends in the booth behind hers. She knew him from working together in Engineering, but she had never seen him like this. His face was red, his black eyes sparkled with fury, and his normally quiet voice was ringing across the mess hall. It was alarming to watch, but Celes could not blame him. A hologram of Crell Mosett. Here on Voyager. It made her just a little sick as well.

"If the Doctor created such a program, it could only be because he does not possess the knowledge to treat Lieutenant Torres by himself," came Ensign Vorik's even tone, in sharp contrast to Tabor's. "This consultant may be the only one who can save her."

"Crell Mosett murdered my family!"

"Would you prefer to see Lieutenant Torres die to satisfy your hatred?" Vorik replied coolly.

"Don't you use your logic on me, Vorik!" Tabor knocked back his Romulan ale and slammed the empty glass back onto the table. "We all know it can't be trusted where our Chief is concerned."

"That is uncalled for - " Vorik blushed a disturbing shade of green. " – and entirely beside the point."

"He's right, Jeth." Joe Carey's Irish voice fell placidly into the tense air. "I understand that you're mad, you have every right to be, but don't take it out on us."

"I'm sorry." Tabor leaned his elbows on the table, raked his hands through his heavily gelled black hair, and sighed deeply. "It's just … it makes me so sick to think of that man here, even just a copy of him, and me unable to do anything about it. I tried to resign my commission - "

"You _what_?" exclaimed Carey.

" – but Chakotay wouldn't let me. Said I need to let go of the past. But how can I, when it's still staring me in the face?"

Tabor's voice cracked with strain, making him sound suddenly much younger. Celes' breath caught with sympathy; he no longer seemed the quiet, intense, unpredictable former terrorist she had thought him to be over the past five years. He sounded like Billy, winding down from an attack of hypochondria, needing someone to hold his hand and tell him there was nothing wrong with him.

That made up her mind. She stood up, wiped her sweaty palms on her trousers, and did her best to ignore her fiercely pounding heart as she went over to join the men.

"Excuse me, Ensigns … Lieutenant … but I couldn't help overhearing."

They looked up from their drinks with suspicion, even Vorik. Celes perched awkwardly at the outermost edge of the booth, blushing all over her face.

"Mr. Tabor, you _can _let go. At least … at least don't waste all your energy on hate. That's not the way of the Prophets."

Tabor's black eyes narrowed even further, raking her up and down as if she were an animal on market day. "Who died and made you my vedek … Tal, is it? You're not even Maquis."

"No, I'm not, but – "

"Where were you during the Occupation?"

How tired she was of that question! As if it made her less Bajoran somehow, not to have suffered in the same degree as most of her generation. As if she had deliberately abandoned her people somehow, instead of doing everything she could to make them proud.

"My parents went missing when I was a baby," she said, struggling to speak evenly. "They left me on the steps of a Bajoran restaurant in a Federation colony. The owners adopted me, but … " _But I was never quite enough. _"They couldn't have children of their own. Crell Mosett's experiments left my mother infertile."

Her adopted parents were good ones, as far as that went. She had been well fed, clothed, and educated as far as her limited talents allowed. Edon had taught her to cook, patiently standing by while she made a mess of his precious kitchen, smiling proudly when she served up her first edible _hasperat. _Meru had stroked her hair when she came home crying after school, telling her it was all right to learn at her own pace. But the empty looks in their eyes from time to time, the heavy silences, and finally their stories when Celes became a teenager, gave their own evidence of thoughts they were too good to say out loud. _Our own daughter would have been different, _she imagined them thinking, after every failing grade or household accident. _She would not have disappointed us like this. _

She told everybody she had joined Starfleet on the remote chance of finding traces of her birth parents. But in truth, all she had wanted was to finally surpass the ghost in her parents' house. She knew now, logically, what an absurd idea that was, and if not for the Caretaker's intervention, would have gladly resigned from Starfleet years ago.

And yet, here she was, wrestling with algorithms and fearing for her life on a regular basis. Still living in the wide wake of Crell Mosett's crimes, just like Tabor, who was watching her now with what looked distinctly like understanding.

Tal Meru's thin face and mournful gray eyes were very clear in Celes' mind. So was her voice, deep and rich, her only beauty. "_Life is too short to waste on hate,_" Celes quoted her softly.

"My parents suffered, but in the end they turned it to a good purpose. It's only thanks to them I didn't end up in an orphanage or worse. Mosett did terrible things, yes, but please don't leave _Voyager_ on his account. That will only make it one more life he's ruined. And don't you think … if they delete the hologram and all his research with it … doesn't that mean what my mother went through, what your grandfather went through, was for nothing? I mean, if all that research that destroyed so many lives can't even save one?"

The three men stared up at her silently for a long moment, their faces pale even in the golden electric lamps. The clinking of glasses, the chatter of the other customers, even the sound of a Frank Sinatra song on the piano seemed lightyears away.

"I never thought of it like that," Tabor whispered, all the fire of his nature once more restrained. It was like watching a flame turn white-hot, more awe-inspiring than any burst of temper.

"We have underestimated your intelligence, Crewman," said Vorik. Beneath the young Vulcan's usual self-importance, she could hear a touch of genuine respect.

"We've just got to do our best to make sure this never happens again," said Carey grimly. "Let the Doc use Mosett's research if he has to, but delete him as soon as he can."

"That," said Vorik, "May be an acceptable compromise."

"Compromise. Hmph." Tabor's lips twisted in distaste. "Perhaps you're right. Think we can trust the bridge staff to see reason on this?"

"The Doctor will," Celes assured him. "My friend Billy and I trust him absolutely. He's a good man. Uh, hologram. You know what I mean."

"If you say so," said Tabor.

Then her countryman, whom she had already seen in so many sudden changes of mood, did something truly unprecedented: he smiled. Not bitterly, but with sincere warmth and kindness toward her, a smile that reached all the way to his black eyes until they shone like small Celestial Temples.

"Thank you," he said, "For coming over here to talk about this. You're very shy, aren't you? It must have been difficult."

"I … I had to," was all the answer Celes could give.

It was enough. He nodded. They were both Bajoran, after all.


End file.
